


You Better Run Through Those Country Plains

by AdelineAround



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Canon Compliant, First Response Arthur Morgan, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Orgasm, Short & Sweet, Strip Tease, Venom Sucking, snake bites
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 12:03:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18120455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdelineAround/pseuds/AdelineAround
Summary: Amateur photographer Albert Mason is bitten by a snake whilst out capturing sights of bison.Arthur, who has taken it upon himself to protect Albert, does the only thing he knows how to do in cases of a snake bite:suck out the venom.





	You Better Run Through Those Country Plains

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is gifted to [Jak](https://twitter.com/yikesjak).  
> Happy birthday!
> 
> RDR2 has got me flinging left and right, enjoying all the pairings. Albert and Arthur's dynamic is so sweet and sentimental, with a hint of goofiness in their interactions.

“And you’re positive this’ll work?” Albert Mason sounds terribly unsure of himself in this moment.

Both he and Arthur are crouching in the high grass, staking out on the plains of the west. They stare out at the land, with Albert’s photography camera high on its tripod. It has been at least an hour since they have been waiting for anything to walk by, and Albert, quite frankly, is not the prime example of a patient man.

“Sure,” Arthur says. He has taken a fancy to Albert recently, and would sit here all day if that meant the amateur photographer got a good shot at some free-roaming bison. “But shush now, or you’ll scare them bulls an’ cows off with yer yappin’. They be charging right at ya if you’re too loud.”

“But they’re beautiful, gentle creatures, Arthur. And that’s why I’m here to photograph them,” counters Albert, who pays Arthur’s advice no heed.

Indeed, the man is stubborn when it comes to watching out for his own safety. Arthur shakes his head, turning so the sunlight is not directly in his eyes. This is why Arthur has decided to stick around Albert Mason; the photographer has quite the knack for getting himself into danger. He does not know how many times he has saved Albert from the wild; it was wolves one time, alligators of the south next, and even a close encounter with death on a cliff side, searching for eagles.

Sometimes, Arthur wonders if he is protecting Albert out of the pure goodness of his heart. Or perhaps it is because Albert is holds a position more than just a photographer in Arthur’s mind. Surely, if he told anyone in the Van der Linde camp about what he is up to, they would laugh in his face and call him a fool.

“Look,” Albert says, pointing his chin towards the direction of some shifting grass.

Though it is still some ways off, Arthur can tell it is too short to be an American bison.

“Stay back,” he warns the photographer, rising to his feet.

Albert struggles to do the same, groaning as his thighs ache in protest, but Arthur had told him earlier that, by making himself look bigger, he would be able to scare off any smaller predators looking for trouble.

Nerves and anticipation gather in Arthur’s throat, eyes dilating like a wolf’s own. If whatever in the grass is out to get him and Albert, Arthur is sure to be poised and ready for a fight. The grass blades shift faster, nearer, with more force. The hair on Arthur’s arms begin to raise as his central nervous system is stimulated. His breathing becomes deeper, prepared to attack.

“Oh, heavens, look at the thing!” Albert all but shouts then, pointing at the figure that emerges from the grass and into the clearing they stand in.

Suddenly, all the tension growing within Arthur is expelled through a big, long sigh. What skitters in front of them are none other than harmless prairie groundhogs.

The critters scamper along in a line, paying no mind to either Albert or Arthur. Their little bodies wiggle through the grassland like lemmings. Arthur shakes his head at the false alarm.

“Damn rodents,” he grunts. He does not hate them, but the distraction they have caused may have lost Albert the chance to catch some bison on his camera. “Well, Albert, what do ya think of photographing these dirt-hogs instead of your wonderfully _majestic_ American bison? They seem more abundant than those wild beasts, anyway.”

No answer.

The space between Arthur’s brows crinkle. “Mr. Mason?” he calls.

Albert does not reply. Turning on his heel, Arthur finds Albert lying supine near his bag of belongings. His eyes, closed, flit back and forth under pale eyelids. Just below his knee is a snake, triangular patterned and all, unfurling itself from the man’s trouser-clad leg.

Arthur picks up a stone on the dirt floor as the snake finally releases Albert, rattling its little tail. He watches the snake as it slithers towards him, unafraid. Just before the venomous hose can sink its fangs into Arthur’s boot, the cowboy is pelting the snake with the rock, the blunt force enough to collapse its long esophagus.

The man brings the stone down again, this time upon the rattlesnake’s head, he bashes it cleanly, two swipes to the snake before it goes down with only a couple of muscle twitches.

But Arthur is far from done. He drops the rock, kicking the viper for good measure.

His heart jumps to his throat as he runs to the photographer’s side, kneeling down next to Albert. He presses his ear against Albert’s chest, listening for a heartbeat, face feeling for any visible rise and fall of the man’s chest. What he hears is a bounding pulse, a loud rhythm of _thu-thump, thu-thump_ deep in Albert’s broad chest. He seems to breathing faster than normal, but any breathing is a good sign.

“Albert, Albert,” he says, shaking the man’s shoulder to check his response level. “Can ya hear me, Mason?”

Albert groans, eyelids fluttering open as he comes back to.

“Arthur?” Albert sits up, voice so frail and frightened when he realizes what has happened. “Oh, oh no. Arthur, I—”

Arthur smooths the back of his hand against the front of Albert’s neck, feeling the temperature of the photographer’s skin. He is hot and clammy, heart still strong with the way his pulse is beating alongside Albert’s throat.

“What are you doing?” Albert asks, sounding out of breath. His cheeks begin to redden.

The ruddy color looks good along Albert’s cheeks, as if he has been out in the sun a little too long, when really it is probably a result of a snake bite. Still, that does not deter the more animalistic side of Arthur’s brain from reacting, conjuring up images of Albert in a more enticing position along the ground.

Arthur sucks on his own teeth. He wills away the lust at the back of his brain. “Did that thing bite you? Do ya know?”

Albert purses his lips, “It happened so fast. I… I don’t know. Everything is just so hot, Arthur.”

Everything is hot indeed, Arthur thinks. He breathes through his nose, jaw clenched. “I found that rattler along your pant leg,” he explains. “Does your leg… uh,” He has an inkling if where the snake bit Albert. “Does your leg hurt any?”

Albert frowns, as if assessing himself from the inside. He nods slowly when he tests his right leg, bending it at the joint.

“Yes, I remember now,” he mutters, frightened. “Those… groundhogs. They were running when the snake climbed up my trousers. And it bit me, here.” Pointing to his inner thigh, Albert cries out, “Lord, it must have hurt so much; I fainted.”

“Well, if we don’t take care of that bite soon, you’re going to do more than faint,” Arthur says. He knows what he is about to say next will sound much more dirty than the situation already is, but Albert has no choice, if he wants to stay alive. “Take of yer pants, Albert.”

“Take off my what?” Albert squawks.

“Yer pants, Mason,” Arthur repeats. “I gotta see where it bit you.”

“And then what?”

Arthur grits his back molars. The photographer is beginning to make this a lot harder than it should be. Time is crucial; the more time they waste on petty questions, the less of a chance Arthur will be able to keep the venom coursing through Albert’s veins.

“ _And_ ,” Arthur tries not to sneer. “If I can find the bite wound, I can suck you.”

Albert’s eyes seem to bug a bit at Arthur, trying to comprehend everything after the mention of his pants. The cowboy flushes a bright tomato, suddenly realizing how wrong his sentence came out. Jesus Christ, did he really just say he wanted to _suck_ Albert? Arthur will have to reprimand himself later for the slip-up.

“I _mean_ ,” Arthur adds quickly, “The venom. If I don’t suck it _out of ya_ , you’ll die, Albert.”

Arthur watches the man closely, observing the way Albert’s thyroid cartilage bobs as he swallows shallowly. Then, Albert nods, “A-alright, okay. Allow me to undo my belt.”

Biting on his bottom lip, the man’s hands reach for his belt buckle. His sturdy hands, pink at the fingertips, are shaking with a slight tremor as he slips the leather out of its loop. He pulls the prong away from the notch. Through the round, Albert undoes the belt from its frame, at last unbuckling it.

All the while, Arthur hyper focuses on Albert. Everything around them melts away as tunnel vision overcomes the cowboy; Arthur is unable to shake himself out of it. Lust, want and panic floods his insides as Albert invites him closer, unbuttoning the front of his trousers. The man’s brown eyes are shy when they meet Arthur’s sea blue, diverting their stare down to the dirt instead.

“I…” Albert starts, but pauses.

His thumbs are at the waistband of his pants now. His mouth is poised, open but not talking, and a silence comes over them when he finally clicks his jaw shut. Arthur can tell he is more than just a little nervous.

“Hey,” Arthur says.

“‘Hay’ is for horses, Arthur,” Albert replies, as if he is trying to distract himself from the severity of his situation.

Arthur barks out a laugh, but he sobers up just as quick. “Ya ain’t gonna die, Albert. Not from this, if that’s what you’re thinkin’. Now, pants off, or I’ll wrestle them off for you.”

That does not seem to calm Albert down, but he at least springs to action. With no more than a second, Albert shucks his trousers away from him, exposing long, lean legs that look absolutely _mouthwatering_ to Arthur.

He has to turn away for a moment as Albert finishes undressing, his own pants becoming uncomfortable. Arthur reaches down to readjust them just slightly.

When Albert gets the article of clothing off his body, he beckons to Arthur, “I don’t see anything.”

He is right, but Arthur is still suspicious. He needs the rest of Albert’s bottoms off to make a full assessment.

“These,” He points to the photographer’s undergarments. “These need to be rid of, too.”

Albert tips his head back, his hat almost falling off his scalp. “You’re kidding me.” When Arthur does not budge, he groans, “You’re not kidding me are you, Mr. Morgan?”

Oh, does Albert sound good addressing Arthur by his last name. Arthur blinks hard, trying to regain focus.

“I’m ‘fraid not. That thing crawled up your leg pretty high, it looked like.”

At this point, Albert looks close to exasperated, but he obliges Arthur’s request, scooching out his cut-short braies with irritated gusto. He flings them into the air, only for it to land on the brim of Arthur’s hat. 

“Oh, lord, I’m so sorry, Arthur,” Albert apologizes with haste. “I didn’t mean to throw them at you.”

Arthur takes Albert’s briefs in one hand, resisting the urge to rub them between his hands and inspect them. He is _not_ here to get with Albert, he thinks to himself but, by god, is the man tempting him. He pushes down his primal instincts, eyes zooming on the swollen bite area.

The bite itself is pretty clean; two incisions on the inside of Albert’s upper thigh, closest to his… Arthur tries not to look at the man’s genitals or the healthy bush of brown pubic hair that frames that lovely, uncut cock. It is such a creamy color, looking velvety soft. Arthur cannot help but wonder if it would feel like a marshmallow if he put it upon his tongue, the foreskin looking plush along the man’s shaft.

But no time for that now; Arthur scolds himself internally. He needs to focus on Albert’s snake bite.

“It’s going to be uncomfortable,” he warns Albert. “If it becomes too much, you gotta reach down squeeze my shoulder, okay?”

Albert seems to understand. “Whatever you say, Arthur.”

Arthur can hear the photographer’s breath hitch when he leans forward, repositioning himself on his knees so he can come into close contact with Albert’s bare leg. He steadies his figure with a hand on the man’s knee, mouth coming in for the count over Albert’s bite wound.

He must remember not to swallow, or Arthur might end up poisoning himself. With careful precision, Arthur seals his lips over the snake bite on Albert’s thigh, crushing the chuckle that threatens to escape his throat when he feels Albert twitch under his mouth.

Albert’s skin is puffy and hot upon Arthur’s lips. The pelage of dark brown hair covering his legs tickles at Arthur’s nose, but they are soft towards the ends, neither too stubbly or too coarse for him to handle. In fact, he loves the feel of it. The texture upon Arthur’s face feel incredible; makes him appreciate how human bodies feel against one another.

And then, he sucks. With negative pressure in his hot cavern, Arthur closes down on Albert’s snake bite and begins to suck the venom out.

“Arthur, whoa,” Albert whimpers and, good god, if that did not come out like a moan… “Slow down.”

But Arthur’s mouth is too busy. He cannot stop sucking, for fear that the venom might travel to Albert’s heart if he does. Instead, he sucks harder and faster. He adjusts his angle, slipping his lips over blunt teeth to prevent himself from biting Albert.

Somewhere in the middle of his brain, Arthur wonders what it would be like to leave bite marks of his own upon Albert; to watch those hickies bruise into beautiful lilacs and buttercups along that fair skin. He shudders, arousal creeping up from his coccyx, up his lumbar spine, climbing his thoracic to cervical vertebrae like a sticky-pawed lizard. His chest tightens in reaction, groin doing the same as he fails to will it away.

Albert growls low in his throat when Arthur releases his thigh in favor to turn his head. The cowboy aims and spits the venom and blood from his mouth into the grass beside them.

“Is that all of it?” Albert has the strength to ask.

Without a verbal reply, Arthur goes back for a second round. Albert has to a slap a hand over his mouth, another guttural groan muffled by his meaty palm. This time, Arthur tries to get the last dregs of the poison out of Albert’s wound site, sucking with more force. His tongue slithers out shortly after, pressing and licking delicately at the snake bite, as if the action can heal it.

Albert sucks in a gasp of air when he does, hands shooting to the sides of Arthur’s face. Cradling the man’s head, his fingers card through what they can get of the man’s hair.

Arthur releases Albert’s leg to spit again. Albert sounds _good_ keening. The cock in Arthur’s pants is as hard as a rock. When he looks down, Arthur realizes that he is not the only one hard; Albert’s cock, once soft, is now sporting stiff.

“It was that good, huh?” Arthur teases, but there is no malicious intent behind his words.

Albert proceeds to cover his face with both hands, clearly ashamed. “Oh, please.” He begs, “Don’t look. It’ll go away on its own in due time.”

“We ain’t got due time,” Arthur counters. His lips are so close to Albert’s cock. “You still want to catch a flash of those bison, don’t ya?” Before Albert can say anything more, Arthur says, “Lemme help you out with this.”

“But the veno— aah!” Albert chokes on the letters.

With one fell swoop, Arthur is taking Albert’s plush cock into his oral cavern. He licks at the glans, sliding further along the length. The man hollows his cheeks, eliciting a full-out moan from the photographer. It brings a grin to his face, only to be diminished when Albert’s hips piston forward, tickling Arthur’s gag reflex. He pops off with a cough.

“Sorry, sorry,” Albert’s tawny eyes are glossed over, shiny like gemstones in quality.

But Arthur just smiles, his teeth gleaming in the daylight. “Nothin’ to be sorry ‘bout. Just relax, Albert. You can close yer eyes, if that helps.”

And then Arthur is descending on Albert again, engulfing him to the root. Albert does not bother to conceal his wail, vocal cords vibrating to emit the shout out into the atmosphere around them.

The cowboy keeps his head there for a few seconds, forcing his throat to relax around Albert’s cock. Arthur relishes in the heavy, heady feeling of a cock in his mouth, resting along his tongue like a token to the underworld does in the mouth of the deceased. Perhaps, that is not the best analogy to use, but Arthur can barely think. He withdraws his head until only the thick head rests upon his lips.

Albert tastes better than he had expected. Sweat gives him a salty quality, but the musk, direct from the source is what really enhances the flavor. Albert tastes like what a smoky bonfire would, and Arthur is absolutely addicted.

With newfound energy, Arthur dives back for more. He bobs his head back and forth, tongue flat against the bottom of Albert’s foreskin. He can feel the throbbing vein on the underside of it, pulsing hotly. Precum spills from the slit, mingling with the copious amounts of Arthur’s saliva. Arthur moans around Albert’s cock, eyes rolling up to stare at the photographer’s face.

Albert is red in the cheeks now, a sweat forming on his heavy brow. Pants of oxygen and carbon dioxide bellow from his open mouth, top and bottom lip wet. He looks entranced, so hypnotized by the sight of Arthur’s tight mouth riding up and down his dick. His chest heaves hard and deep beneath the vest and dress shirt he is wearing.

“Arthur,” he mewls. Another unadulterated moan is ripped from his trachea. Gently, Albert knocks away the hat on Arthur’s head to reveal the rest of his face.

Albert feels so good on Arthur’s tongue. He swirls his tongue over the bulbous tip of Albert’s cock, as it peaks from the foreskin when he pulls it back with one fist. He releases it, only to peck kisses upon the shaft. The flesh is scorching, slick from Arthur’s mouth.

Arthur reaches down to undo his own belt, doing away with it skillfully and quickly with his big, calloused hands. He strokes up and down at the hard rod in his pants, reciprocating on Albert’s cock as well.

“Shit.” This has to be one of the few times Arthur has ever heard Albert curse in his vicinity. The swear sounds sweet; spiced, rolled in sugar, and Arthur yearns for more.

He swallows Albert again.

Albert cants his hips, wheezing now. His eyes squeeze closed once, then he is thrusting up into Arthur’s hot heat of a mouth. Arthur welcomes it, pulling him back in when Albert tries to shy away. He slurps the excess spit that drips from Albert’s member, widening his mouth in attempt to accommodate him better.

“Ah, fuck,” Albert hisses, finally understanding what Arthur is inviting him to do.

He punches up into Arthur’s molten mouth, groaning raggedly. His cock hits the back of Arthur’s throat, but the cowboy only opens his jaw wider. His nostrils flare, the suction around Albert growing greater with each move.

Albert starts a rhythm, slow at first, then more. Deeper, faster, his cock ruts into Arthur’s mouth not unlike an animal. His breath catches, coming out in growls and grunts instead of fluid noises.

Arthur _loves_ the sound of Albert Mason like this. His jaw is beginning to ache, but there is no way he is going to stop now. He grips tighter along his own angry cock, thrusting into his fist as Albert uses his mouth. Tears prick at the corner of his ocean eyes, but he does not dare to shut them. Everything feels so good. By the looks of it, through the blurriness of the tears rimming his lower lids, Arthur can tell Albert is enjoying this, too.

All too soon, the pleasure is stacking up, ready to topple over any time now. Arthur’s abdomen tightens, the telltale signs of his orgasm coming nearer and nearer. His forearms strain as he strokes himself faster. His wrist twinges in protest, but he cannot care less at the moment. He glides his mouth over Albert’s cock erratically, trying not to choke as Albert thrusts forward each passing second.

“I’m gonna, Arthur,” Albert warns, ears cherry at the tips. His forehead is becoming tinged from exertion. “I’m coming, Arthur, I’m coming.”

Like a wave crashing over him, Albert throws his head back as his body convulses from head to toe. Arthur barely has enough time to draw back, as not to aspirate the spray of the man’s seed that blesses Arthur’s tongue and face. He catches what he can on his oral muscle, getting some on his cheek and chin as Albert slowly floats back to earth. Arthur fucks his fist with more force, keeping the photographer’s cum in his mouth, not yet taking it into himself.

“Arthur,” Albert pants.

One, two, three more strokes over his dick, and Arthur is coming, too.

The world tilts on its side as Arthur is ejected into metaphorical air, nearest the heavens. Fluffy, white clouds stick to his golden bangs. The sunlight incinerates him at this altitude, lights his soul on fire and brings him to rapture. He does not breathe, does not speak. Cannot hear anything except the murmur of his once healthy heartbeat. His extremities feel numb until the sun rays release him. Suddenly, he is falling, falling miles per hour, back into his own body named Arthur Morgan.

“Oh my god,” is the first thing his ears register when he regains focus.

Arthur looks up at Albert, who is positively wrecked. The bitter taste of cum is still in his mouth, and he takes the time to swallow it down into his gut without complaint. Albert sighs at the sight, lying back down on the ground. Neither of them care if their clothing becomes dusty from the soil of the American plains. They are already dirty as is.

“That was really somethin’,” Arthur breaks their silence after a while. He wipes his face clean with a handkerchief from his pocket.

Albert outright laughs, giddy from the afterglow of his orgasm. “I cannot agree more, Mr. Morgan.”

“So we’re back to titles again, are we?” Arthur grins. “It looks like you’re going to live, Mr. Mason. That rattler got nothing on me.”

“I believe it,” Albert says, sitting up to lock eyes with the cowboy. “You saved me, Arthur. And then some.”

Arthur looks away, feeling bashful all of a sudden. “It was nothin’. I promised to protect you, and I did.”

“What about the ‘and then some’?” Albert snorts when Arthur wipes a hand over his face at the mention of their unexpected… coupling. “Was that nothing, too?”

“Yes, I mean, no,” Arthur stutters. “I.. If there’s something ya gotta know ‘bout me, it’s that I ain’t very good at words.” He stands, reaching a hand out to assist Albert.

Albert takes the man’s hand gratefully. “That much I figured,” he confesses. He surveys the plains around them once again, but there is nothing in sight. “Well, I think I’ve had enough of these no-show bison. Don’t you think, Arthur?”

Arthur scratches at his beard. “What are you tryin’ to say, Albert?”

“I’m saying, won’t you join me for drink and a meal tonight?” Albert asks.

Arthur, ever ungraceful with words, opts for his tag line answer, “Sure.”

They may not have captured any bison on camera, but Albert cannot care less. They walk back to their horses, bodies loose and hearts content with each other.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave kudos and/or a comment if you enjoyed this short fic! They are the sustenance that keeps me fed through the seasons, especially with the shortage of food.
> 
> Come talk to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ra9ical) too, if you please.


End file.
